It’s Easter weekend, the sun has made a small appearance and we are having a lovely weekend in the Yorkshire Dales. Even Miss H, who hasn’t been very well the last two days, has seen a park and run off contentedly. Daddy is supervising, as J has a tendency to throw himself onto or off anything he shouldn’t. And I’m sat down, on a folded buggy due to lack of benches, missing it all.
All around me parents play with their children, pushing them on swings or helping them master the climbing frame and whether in imagining it or not, I feel them staring at me.
Look at her, she’s young, she’s relatively fit. Why is she sat there staring at her phone whilst the dad does all the work? How lazy! How uninterested in her kids! How selfish!
And there it is again, that old friend of mine, guilt. It comes in many forms and for many reason but it’s there daily, and sometimes constantly. Especially when I hear the children begging me to play with them and get off the sofa. I try my best but after five minutes of playing ‘ninjago’ with J (a very vigorous activity where you spin and knock into each other) or an assault course with them both, and I am ready for bed. Making food for them in tiring enough and yesterday my hand ached after pushing H on the swing for five minutes. Seriously. Is this all there is?